


Claustrophobia

by Silk (Tessera)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Claustrophobia, M/M, POV First Person, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 02:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4204920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tessera/pseuds/Silk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Krycek is stuck with Mulder in an elevator. Yeah, I know it's cliche-ish but I had to put them *somewhere*, hadn't I?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Claustrophobia

**Author's Note:**

> This work is from the late 90's and I am reposting it here., nearly twenty years later.  
> Characters not mine, just lovingly borrowed and played with from CC, 1013 and Fox, settings mine and not publicly approved of from Up Above.

I've never liked enclosed spaces. But I've never let it affect me before. It wouldn't do for a FBI agent to be afraid, would it? I've never called it claustrophobia, always fought down the tense feeling in my stomach, not letting it build into panic, forcing it down with iron control and slamming the door shut. Trying to hide it from myself.

When I was down there, down in the...silo, I couldn't contain it anymore. I screamed and fought and cried at first, beating my hands bloody against the door, shouting my throat raw. I wasn't rational, I know. It's hard to be rational locked up like that, hard to be of sound judgement when black oily residue clots your eyelashes together, when your mouth tastes of the sweet iron of your own blood mixed with the bitter slick taste of oil. The strange taste of something that doesn't belong on this planet. Is it any wonder that I went off the deep end eventually?

To this day, I don't remember how I got out of there. If anyone asks, I tell them about some militia men. The truth is - I don't know. It could've been anyone. All **I** know is that I woke up in a narrow bed in a cheap hotel room feeling sore and **still** able to taste oil in my mouth.

But this isn't the closet where my father locked me up, this isn't the smoking man's foggy office or a dark underground silo. This is an elevator in the back of the FBI building on a Saturday evening and I can't afford a panic attack.

My chin hurts where he slammed me into the wall. I'll have a bruise the size of an FBI ID come morning. I try to concentrate on that, to shut out the sound of the doors closing shut, leaving me and Fox Mulder in a small elevator.

It's the worst kind of elevator too, with totally closed doors. In fact, it reminds me of the elevators in the small hotels in London. The ones that are made from rebuilt Victorian or Georgian houses, with their endless narrow corridors that lead one around in circles. Those hotels always have tiny elevators, about four foot square, with plush carpets stained and worn by hundreds of feet coming in from the lobby trailing muddy suitcases after them, with walls covered in the same ruddy soft carpet and the light a dim lamp in the tiny roof. Often these places have one wall mirrored. I've always wondered why. Do they do it to try to make the place seem bigger? If so, they never succeed.

This place doesn't have mirrors. It has a small tip-up chair, but Mulder's leaning towards that wall so I can't get at it. I lean against the opposite wall, my face averted from Mulder's. It's not that I don't want him to see me like this -he's already seen me looking far worse - but I have to keep my eyes on the doors. As long as I keep my eyes on the doors and clench my hands so tight behind my back that I can feel the tiny trickles of blood collecting in my palms, as long as I do that I can keep from crying. It's too small, too small in here and I can't breathe!

No! Calm down, Alex, you can breathe. This will soon be over, we'll be down in just a few seconds.

And this is the proof that the universe is out to get me, that every man's hand is turned against me. I hear the soft creaking noise and the elevator suddenly comes to a standstill.

At first I can't believe it. This simply cannot be happening. But as much as I'm straining my ears to hear any sound of the elevator moving, it's in vain. This elevator is dead, as dead as my early childhood belief in an honest government. I'm stuck in a minute elevator in the back of the FBI building on a Saturday evening. And it's not as if somebody will miss me... It takes a couple of seconds for the fact to sink in but when it does, it hits me hard. I close my eyes tightly, bite my lips bloody and I can feel my nails digging even deeper into callused flesh. I can't breathe, I can't breathe in here! Please, please, **please** , GET THIS DAMN ELEVATOR RUNNING!!!

I don't realize that I'm shouting until Mulder looks at me strangely and I hear my own voice reverberate in the tiny space. He just leans back against the wall, wearing that arrogant, lovely smile, and tells me to shut up. Shut up! He's a psychologist, he should know about this. Or maybe he's just getting a kick out of it...

I try not to scream. The truth is, I'd do a lot of things for Fox Mulder. At least he doesn't shoot me on sight, the least I can do is refrain from shouting. So I lean back against the wall and try to unclench my fists, try to look casual, try not to reveal the panic I feel rising in my gut. It's not easy, and I carefully avoid looking at him, carefully avoid looking anywhere but at the door. I can't feel the sweat beads rising on my forehead but I know they're there. I don't feel the nails of my right hand digging into my left wrist, I don't feel the nails on my left hand breaking against the wooden paneling of the elevator. I know I'm doing it, because I can feel blood trickling down my wrist. Blood collects in my mouth too, from the lip I keep biting into, and I try to focus on the taste, trying to pick out all the individual flavours of my own blood. The sweet tang of iron, the salt...

I don't know that I'm screaming again until I feel Mulder's arm around me, Mulder's palm over my mouth. I try to get away and end up throwing myself into the wall, reminding myself again that I'm trapped here. Trapped here...

I must have stopped yelling because his hand is gone. His hand is gone from my mouth but the other one still rests calmly at my shoulder. I wish it didn't. The weight of it sends shudders through my body, the warmth it radiates speeds down and hits me hard. He's always been able to do that to me, make me totally incoherent with a touch. Oh, who am I kidding, he can make my breath catch in my throat with a look. And now his look, that face so close to mine, it's enough to make me stop breathing, to make me repress the terrible feeling of walls closing in on me, of air going bad.

I don't realize I've been holding my breath until I feel it bursting out, like thunder in my ears. And then Fox Mulder is holding me, his arms around me. I wonder, briefly, if that's what they told him in Oxford that one should do with hysterical criminals stuck in elevators. And it's now that I realize I'm screaming again. That my yell echoes off the walls, is absorbed by the orange-and-brown carpeting. And that Mulder's arms around me are warm and safe and erotic. That his hair smell slightly of crisp apples. That there's a slight trace of some spice coming from his skin, his cheek so close to mine. And I'm screaming my lungs out and he's just holding me close and I don't care, I don't care what he thinks about me any more, all I care about is that his hair smells so good and his cheek is so soft and to my own surprise I turn my head slightly and stop screaming, kissing that lower lip.

Some remote corner of my mind probably keeps itself detached, registering everything that happens, filing it away for future reference. I know it does, that's how my mind works. I always remember those moments of panic, afterwards. But now I'm **not** screaming, I'm kissing special agent Fox Mulder as if my life and sanity depended on it. And it might well be so. As long as I'm kissing him I can unfocus and forget. Forget about my...claustrophobia, forget about always running for cover. Forget about everything.

His lips are soft under mine and I can feel that lower lip tremble as I assault it with my own, taking it in my mouth, pulling on it with my teeth. I slip my tongue into his mouth, tasting him, and I feel his arms tighten around me and my cock harden, more than I thought was possible. Leaning into him like this, pressed against each other in the small space, I can feel an erection matching my own bumping into my thigh. Hell, he wants this just as bad as I do! I wish my hands were loose so I could roam them all over him, bury my fingers in that gorgeous hair and press his head close to my own. Now the only way I can show him my desire is by kissing him. And kiss him I do, long and thoroughly, my mouth wandering from that enchanting lower lip to the hard edge of his mandibular bone, tonguing the ridge out to his ear and playfully biting the lobe. I hear him gasp and his arms tighten around me and I can feel one of his hands wandering downwards. I rip my mouth for a second from his throat to shake my head - he'll get blood on that soft expensive Armani suit - but he doesn't care. I can feel his fingers over the cuffs, wandering, sending small tendrils of icy fire all along my nerve paths, and suddenly I realize he's unlocking them. Gingerly I put one hand forward and carefully, lest I smear him with blood, I touch that cheek, the faint stubble raspy under my fingertips. He looks at me all the time, looking me straight in the eyes with those hazel irises. My eyes are hazel too, but much more green, his are generously flecked with brown. Warm eyes, not cold green like my own. I can feel the blush creeping up my cheek bones under that stare. He smiles then, a lopsided smile, and kisses me.

That undoes me. I melt perfectly into his embrace and answer the kiss as if my life depends on it. I do not speak, and neither does he. We're trapped in this elevator together and somehow that's all that matters, not what's been before and not what's going to happen. The only thing that matters is now, this moment, and trying to speak would disrupt it beyond repair. For we hate each other, don't we? He trusted me and I betrayed him. He uses me as a punch bag whenever we see each other. He thinks I killed his father and nothing I say will ever convince him otherwise. I didn't, but right now it doesn't matter. Nothing matters, nothing at all. Just the feeling of his mouth against mine. The almost unsure dance of his tongue over my teeth, tracing the roof of my mouth as if he's trying to learn it by heart. And I kiss him back, clinging to him, holding on for dear life, shutting away all shadows and all thoughts of suffocating to concentrate on these feelings. The fingers of my left hand tangle in his hair, pushing him towards me, while the other traces abstract figures on his neck. His fingers aren't exactly idle either, I feel them deftly unbuttoning my shirt and pushing it and my leather jacket down, trapping my arms at my sides. I quickly shrug the clothes off, wanting my hands free to pull at **his** clothes. As I try to unbutton the shirt he slaps my hands away playfully and, while continuing to kiss me, he unbuttons my jeans, slowly, pausing between each button.

I feel like I'm going insane. Like I'm drowning in dark honey, because that's how his kisses feel, sweet and overpowering, and all I can do is grab his shoulders and cling to this man, the single constant in my universe right now. Almost automatically I lift my hips off the ruddy carpet-clad wall, lifting one leg after the other, enabling him to pull jeans, socks and shoes off all at once. The movement makes me lose my grip on his shoulders and for a second I can feel the panic set in again. For a second I almost scream and my breath catches in my throat, but then his arms are there again, and I can breathe, sobbing at his shoulder, scared and hot and horny, all mixed up. The wool of his suit is both soft and prickly against my naked skin and I can hardly believe it. His hands wander on my back, slowly, erotically, and I hear myself moan, feel myself grow even harder, and his cock hard under the suit, hard against my thigh. I tear my bloody hands away from his shoulders and fumble with his tie, waiting for him to slap them away again. But he doesn't, he looks at me and smiles, and kisses me, and those long, skillful fingers - shouldn't he be a doctor, instead of Scully? - trace soft intricate patterns on my thighs, featherlight touches, getting closer and closer to my cock, yet never touching it.

My fingers fumble but I get rid of that hideous tie and with shaking hands I throw it in a corner. With fingers made slippery from nervousness I start on the buttons that holds that white-on- white linen shirt together. The man's got taste, exclusive taste, for everything but ties. I laugh a little at that thought - his ties **are** exclusive, in a way - and he looks at me and now he touches me again and I gasp. No one can know how erotic his touches are, soft silky fingers tracing my perineum and cupping my balls and I think I cry out, or maybe I don't, maybe Mulder just put two of his fingers over my mouth as a precaution.

I'm hardly aware of what I'm doing anymore. I rip the shirt apart, not caring that it probably cost more than I paid for a suit when I was with the FBI. All I know is that I have to touch that skin and I burrow my nose in the soft curls on his chest. Like the hair on his head it smells faintly of apples and I begin to wonder if someone's given him an entire bathroom set with green apple scent or if he just uses one of those cheap brand hair-and-body-shampoos. But underneath that crispy scent lies the salt and spice of Mulder and with a sound that reaches my ears as a sob I catch one of the brown nubs between my lips and nibble on it, reveling in the soft-yet-firm texture and the salty taste. I'm kissing Fox Mulder's chest, like in countless daydreams, and it's better than I could even imagine. His fingers, now infinitely tender, now slightly rougher, caresses my buttocks and -finally! - touch my cock and, it's embarrassing as hell, but his hand, moving up and down, makes me even hotter, and I rub myself against those scratchy pants the man is **still** wearing. Oh, God, I could get off on this alone. The scratchiness isn't exactly unpleasant - rather the reverse actually - and I can hear myself moaning soft breaths against Mulder's salty skin. It feels so good and yet I want more. He drives me out of my mind and I grab Mulder's head in my hands and kiss him, as hard as I can, pressing my tongue deep into his mouth, capturing the taste that is the very essence of Mulder. If one could bottle that taste...

And he responds exactly the way I want him to, kissing me back aggressively, dominantly, roaming his hands over my back, pinching my ass slightly. I grind myself even more enthusiastically against him, probably leaving slimy traces of precum all over those lovely pants. My hands are shaking from excitement and I start to fumble with the zipper and my hands aren't slapped away. Actually he's encouraging me by skimming his hands deftly along my back, cupping my butt cheeks and pinching them slightly again. I moan against his mouth and start to ease the pants down over his slim hips. He's co-operating beautifully, spreading his legs slightly as I tug on the wool and making it easier for me to slide the dark textile down over those long legs. Without letting go of my mouth he tears them off and he's now dressed only in dark green jockeys with tiny little red parakeets on. It's just so - Mulderish - that I rip my mouth away from his and **stare** at him. Mulder in hideous ties I expect - like that red one with the orange-and-yellow zig-zag pattern - but **underwear**?!

Mulder looks down at me and I feel myself smiling. Okay, the briefs aren't exactly **tasteful** but somehow they fit him perfectly. More than perfectly, actually, the soft material stretched over an impressive hard-on. I smile into his neck and start kissing him again, slowly working my way downwards. He doesn't moan or anything, in fact there's no sign but his heavy breathing and his encouraging hands that he even **likes** what I'm doing, but right now I really don't care. I've been dreaming about this countless nights, laying sleepless in strange hotel rooms, hearing the cockroaches making their rounds on the shabby floor. Those times I've closed my eyes and imagined Mulder lying beside me in the rickety bed, imagined *his* hand instead of my own stroking my penis, tried to imagine how he would taste. And now I can do all that, a fantasy come true. I nibble slightly on his nipples before I fall to my knees in front of him and rest my cheek against the bulge in his jockeys.

I feel his hands against my head now and for a second look up. He's standing over me, looking for all the world like some ancient conquering hero, and suddenly I can't wait any more. I pull the undergarment off with lightning speed and start to fondle his balls with my tongue.

I could never have imagined something like this, not even in my wildest fever dreams. The spicy taste is tenfold stronger here and I bury my nose in the wiry pubic hair, drawing one of the silky testicles into my mouth, caressing it over and over with my tongue, careful not to scrape against it with my teeth. I could do this forever and not tire of it. Mulder's erection bumps into my cheek and I take a quick lick at it as it goes by. Finally, a reaction - Mulder gasps and his breathing becomes slightly irregular. Both his hands are at my head now, those long graceful fingers wound tightly in my hair, pulling at the roots almost, but not quite, painfully. Directing me, and I take the hint gratefully, because it's what I've been wanting to do all the time. I tilt my head slightly to the side and, in one fluid motion, swallow his cock almost to the root.

There's a trick to deep-throating and I can't do it on command. But with this man it all goes perfectly, I relax my throat and suck him in deeply and I can feel the blood pulsating along the large vein on the under side, the one winding its way to the flaring cock head. I trace it with my tongue and constrict my throat slightly and I hear a soft, almost inaudible, sound, coming from Mulder. His hands tighten in my hair, pulling a strand or two loose with a sharp, almost stinging, pain. I don' t mind. I'm sucking special agent Fox Mulder's cock and I **really** like it. I feel I could come from sucking him off and at that thought I grind myself sharply against his knees.

I can hear Mulder's sharp intake of breath and the next second he's pulling me up, hands on my shoulders, and pressing me against the elevator wall he kisses me deeply, holding my head with one hand and trailing the other down my spine, touching my butt cleft, rubbing a knuckle across the tight opening. I gasp - or maybe I moan, I'm not too sure of my own reactions right now, but evidently Mulder's encouraged by it because his hand wanders upwards. I can feel his fingers collecting the slick sweat that's been running all over my back, and then I **know** I gasp against his mouth because one of his fingers glides slowly into me. At first there's a quick, almost imagined, stab of pain, and then I relax and just lean into his arms. I mean, hell, this is Fox **Mulder** for christ's sake, and he's shoving his **finger** up my **ass** and it's so fantastic! He inserts another one and I can feel my knees turn to jelly. This is **so** good, so much better than my dreams, and I can't help but closing my eyes, just for a second.

Suddenly he's not there anymore, no arms close around me, and I open my eyes in panic, just to see him rummaging around in his suit pocket. He looks at me, and I can swear I see him blushing a tiny bit when he pulls a condom of the pre-lubricated brand out of the inner pocket of his jacket.

I get all hot and bothered at the mere sight. The thought of the agent's throbbing erection all covered in this thin rubber sheath, ready to run up my back entrance, it's one of the greatest turn-on's of my life. With slightly shaky hands I take the packet from Mulder and, ripping the plastic open with my teeth, I apply the rubber with hands that are suddenly very steady. I caress those lovely testicles in their silky, slightly furry sack once more and, catching sight of the foldable chair, I think of a way to put that one to good use. I fold out the chair and lean forwards, resting my hands on it. I can feel the edges of the not-enough sandpapered piece of wood, splinters rough under my hands, as I lean forwards, wiggling my rear end invitingly at Mulder.

You don't have to tell the man twice - he surely knows how to take a subtle hint. Or maybe I'm not being very subtle at the moment, but, hell, do I really care? I mean, I'd gladly screw subtle for the feel of Mulder's cock up my ass. Or was that a double entendre? I can feel his fingers on my buttocks, spreading them, and then the head of his erection presses against my anus. There is a short stab of pain, but it passes more quickly than the lingering hurtfulness of a bruise or the gut-wrenching nausea of a head blow and leaves a wonderful feeling of not-quite pain and not-quite pleasure, quickly turning into all-pleasure.

I lean my head against the wall, almost wishing there was a mirror so I could see Mulder's face when he starts moving, pushing his member in and out in an almost torturously slow pace. I can feel the head hitting my prostate gland, over and over again, and I hear my own breathing speed up, and Mulder's slow and regular breaths becoming heavier, hot against my neck as he leans forward with a particularly long stroke, nipping my neck.

I don't know what I'm doing anymore, or where I am, all I care about is special agent Fox Mulder fucking me into sweet oblivion, so I raise my hips even further and, as if he reads my mind, he starts going faster, and slightly rougher.

He isn't *too* rough, he's not hurting me or anything, just enough to make me feel really wonderful. I close my eyes, just for a second, feeling the carpet under my forehead. My head moves slightly against the wall as he thrusts and I have this sinking feeling I'll have a carpet burn there. A strange thing to explain to the prison officer. I can feel the heat but I don't really care. Mulder's hand is all wrapped around my cock and **is** this man an expert in this, or what? He's sure had practice - all those long hours in front of the television set, forgotten files on his lap. This is just so **good** , **too** good. My balls shrink and pull themselves upwards, as if in fear, but what I'm feeling is most definitely **not** fear, because as Mulder once again lets his fingers run slowly over the glans, he buries his rod to the hilt in me and I can hear myself screaming as I come.

The moment is stretched out into eternity. I hear the sound of my own voice, Mulder's hot, heavy breathing as he pumps back and forth, the soft creaking of the tip- up chair, not used to such pressure. The soft slap of Mulder's balls against my own, and my internal muscles contracting against his erection, squeezing it, hugging it, making him come.

He grabs my shoulders as he comes, hard enough to leave bruises, but it's not as if I **really** mind. I feel the heaviness of him leaning some of his weight against me, and I slowly loose my grip on the chair, sliding down into a heap on the floor. Gracelessly, bonelessly, still caught up in his orgasm, Mulder follows, his cock almost reluctantly sliding out of me.

The air is heady with the aroma of sex, the sweet smell of semen and sweat. Mulder's breathing has calmed down now, is hot and regular against my shoulder, his arms around me, cradling me, protecting me from the world and everything that's in it, against everything but himself. Everything but the seedy intoxicating fragrance that is Fox Mulder. Against everything but the hopeless desire I feel towards this man, the desire I've always felt and managed to clamp down. And I know I'm hooked on this man, hooked for life. With the way he looked at me, the way he kissed me, those hazel eyes blazing, I dare say he feels something too. Neither of us will ever say it, though. Mulder has too high morals and I, what could I do? I'd draw trouble to him, that's what I'd do. And besides, when he's thinking clearly again he'll be back to slapping me around. Taking me down to that superior of his, having me properly arrested. No one can say Mulder is bound by the book but he  **has** a strong sense of justice. For the moment I'm safe though, safe and sound in the circle of his arms. And I touch his face, run my fingers over that luscious lower lip, try to commit every part of him to memory. I can see the blood which has dried on my hands but it's as if that happened in another universe. I know I'm stuck in a tiny elevator and I feel the air is running out, but if I'm going to die let me do it cradled in Fox Mulder's arms. Without wanting to - I don't want to miss a second of this - I feel my head fall down onto his shoulder and my eyelids close.

Seconds later - or is it hours? - I awake with a shock. The floor is moving under me, the elevator is no longer stuck. The jeans cut into my legs and my shirt is only half-buttoned. I look at Fox Mulder, but he refuses to meet my eyes, re-arranging his clothing, re-tying that hideous tie. I can understand that. How is he going to explain this one away? Having sex with a known criminal in a stuck elevator in the back of the FBI building.

And the elevator whirs to a stop at the bottom floor and I expect Mulder to clip the cuffs around my wrists again but he just stands there, not looking at me, as the door opens. For a second I feel like I'm frozen, in space and time. All I can see are the doors opening slowly, as if in slow-motion, and the back of Mulder's head. It would be so easy just bolting out the door, but I turn around and look at Mulder. And he looks at me. Just for a second he looks at me, those hazel eyes clouded by something which I won't call tears. He mouths something - Go! - and then he turns and faces the wall.

I look at him again, one last time, seeing him in stark profile against the hideous carpet-like covering of the sides of the elevator, memorizing the way he looks. Then I turn around and walk away, out of the elevator, out of the FBI building's back door. Out of Fox Mulder's life.


End file.
